


The First Rocks of The Shepard

by Liara_90



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Historical References, One Shot, POV Third Person, Post-Mass Effect 3, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 01:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: In the days following the defeat of the Reapers, Admiral Hackett is left to wonder how the galaxy will rebuild. And the newly-widowed Liara T'Soni is determined that Shepard's sacrifice will not be in vain.A short exploration of the post-ME3 galactic order, and the origins of the legend of "The Shepard".





	The First Rocks of The Shepard

**Author's Note:**

> An earlier (worse, incomplete) version of this fic is available on my Tumblr [here](http://pvoberstein.tumblr.com/post/162718651808/hackett-drabble-wip-mass-effect).

_"And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it."_

(Matthew 16:18) 

Admiral Hackett entered his quarters, and found them empty. 

That should not have struck him as unusual. Like so many career officers, he’d been too smart or too dumb to marry, unwilling to endure the hardship of prolonged separations while on distant tours to the far fledges of the galaxy. Sailors but a few generations before him had had easier access to their loved ones, back when humanity was still bounded by the surly bonds of gravity and a message was never more than a few milliseconds delayed. The mass relays had made travel over inconceivably vast distances possible, but letters could take days to cover those same distances. He’d rediscovered the isolation of a man at sea in the Age of Sail, only aboard a spaceship in the Attican Traverse. 

Even in his youth, though, he’d never been much of a womanizer, foregoing the bars and brothels that were practically a rite-of-passage for sailors visiting distant ports. It had been over a decade since he’d last shared a bed. That bothered him very rarely, on most nights, for there was more than enough companionship in the Service to keep him sane. 

Tonight, though, his quarters were _empty_. 

He’d retired aboard his flagship for the first time since the firing of the Crucible. Which had been close to a Solar day ago. Which meant he’d been awake for... _two and half? three?_ days at this point. Even for a man of his willpower, that wouldn’t have been possible without access to pharmacological wonders that made modafinil look like his mother’s tea. The ship’s physician had been yelling at him to sleep for hours - apparently his biometric readings were setting off warning klaxons in the medbay - but only just now did he feel like the chaos was becoming manageable. That he could step off the bridge - for just a few minutes - and the galaxy would still be there when he returned. 

He hadn’t felt that way since Bahak. 

A baby-blue pill, still sealed in its plastic cocoon, was waiting for him on his desk, next to a tall glass of water that some orderly must have prepared for him. Hackett unpeeled the packaging, distantly contemplating the promise of sleep the sedative promised. Even now, he didn’t feel like he needed to close his eyes. He was exhausted beyond words, but his body was still jacked-up on adrenaline, his mind still reeling with disbelief. 

As if to assuage that disbelief, Hackett found himself staring out his window, staring down at that blue-green planet countless miles away. It took him a moment to get his bearings. They were chasing the solar terminator, traversing the Pacific from east to west. He named the land masses, almost unthinkingly - Borneo, Mindanao, Palawan, Luzon, New Guinea. _The Second World War_ , something in his subconscious chimed in, as he searched for the rhythm to his recollections. Campaigns he’d studied at the Academy, the exploits of Nimitz and MacArthur, Yamamoto and Nagumo. The Academy had been a lot more traditionalist back in his day, and he’d been expected to know his history. 

No doubt he’d secured his place in that pantheon of history, those hallowed halls of great commanders. Perhaps he’d even displaced his beloved Nelson as the king of naval gods. Even if they were ultimately a side-show to Shepard’s work on the Crucible, his fleet actions in defense of Sol would no doubt go down as one of the most pivotal campaigns in galactic history. Not that that was much consolation to him, not now. He’d lost more men in the first day of the Reaper War than had been killed in the entirety of the System Alliance’s history. There were simply no parallels in the historical record, nothing approximating it in scale. More men had died under his command than any figure in history. Whatever happened next, he would never escape that. 

He lay on his bed, without undressing, and stared at the ceiling. Sleep refused to claim him. 

_What comes next?_

* * *

_What comes next?_

He repeated the question himself on the second sleepless night. V-Day+1. 

In retrospect, it was strange that that question had barely been asked. But he had only so much brainpower, and for the past several weeks every iota of cognition had been devoted to keeping humanity alive for just a few more hours. 

He’d spent the first day - the first day without Armageddon looming over his shoulder - trying to figure out what had happened in the rest of the galaxy, while saving as many lives back on Earth as possible. 

But now he’d done it. The orders had been given, and millions of soldiers under his command were exchanging swords for ploughshares, to steal an old saying. There were field hospitals to be built, refugee camps to be governed, bodies to be buried. Canals, dykes, roads, bridges, reactors, schools, farms, fisheries - he would devote the remaining energies of his life to rebuilding Earth and probably barely make a dent in it. But in so many ways, that was out of his hands now. Reconstruction would be a function of bureaucracy and administration, not command. 

_What comes next?_

He marshaled his thoughts. He had always been a strategic thinker, something noted on every personal review since the Academy. He had no difficulties fitting things into the Big Picture. So as he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, that’s what he did. 

Without question, Hackett knew he was the most important figure in the Systems Alliance, and every psychological evaluation he’d ever been subjected to had never shown more than a sliver of narcissism. Almost the entire civilian leadership had been killed at Arcturus during the opening shots of the war, and the few politicians planetside had died almost as quickly. Not that there were really functioning polities for them to govern, anyways. The fact that the entire Sol System was under martial law was something of a technicality - the Systems Alliance was the only organization capable of distributing resources or enforcing the law. His men were running every hospital, every spaceport, every food distribution center. It was the most effortless military coup ever accomplished - a _junta_ by default, welcomed from Alert to McMurdo. 

And there was no one to challenge him. Udena was disgraced (and dead). Anderson, a war hero whose charisma was rivaled perhaps only by Shepard’s, was also missing, presumed dead. Shepard was... _gone_. Hackett had personally ordered that Shepard’s file be flagged not as KIA but as MIA. Perhaps that was him being overly cautious after Alchera, but he doubted that. It didn’t feel like _uncertainty_. 

Maybe he was doing that just for morale. Everyone needed a good myth to buy into, and Shepard could perform one final duty for the Alliance, becoming an everlasting and unbreakable symbol. But something gnawed at the back of his mind. Perhaps this was how rumors became cults became religions. With a standing order that _Shepard’s still out there_. Hackett knew his Bible, but wasn’t sure if this made him Paul or Peter. 

He dismissed that thought with a shake of his head, and returned to his ruminations. 

The few human-governed planets that had escaped devastation were dependent on the SA fleet for the transportation of basic commodities, not to mention security against the innumerable pirate bands and warlords of the galaxy. Even his rivals in the Fleet were gone, killed by the Reapers. Heroically or pointlessly, it was all the same. He was King Hackett in all but title. 

_The galaxy_ . 

The asari, once the _de facto_ dominant power of the galaxy, were humbled. Their fleets were destroyed, Thessia in ruins, and the revelations of the Temple of Athame had decimated the implicit moral and cultural superiority much of the galaxy had afforded them. They were being blamed for withholding knowledge that might have saved the galaxy from the Reapers, rightly or wrongly, and they would live with that burden for generations. 

The turians and the salarians had fared slightly better, but only just. The salarians hadn’t the resources to make a play for galactic dominance, nor the inclination to, if Hackett was being honest. They were more likely to attempt to systematically corrupt the post-Citadel order than conquer it overtly. The turians retained a stronger fleet, and their government had survived largely intact - in structure if not in composition - but it would be years before they could project a fraction of the power they once had. 

The krogans were in anarchy. With news spreading like wildfire about a cure for the genophage, krogans were flocking to Tuchanka on every available ship, spaceworthy or not. They were only providing bodies for the next great civil war. The destruction of Clan Urdnot had brought down whatever fragile order the krogans might have enjoyed. Hackett estimated they’d be consumed by warlordism for at least a decade. _Bellum omnium contra omnes_ , to quote a long-dead chap. 

The quarians were enjoying perhaps the closest thing to a happy ending. They had a homeworld, though the fabled Flotilla was only a pale ghost of its former self. On a galactic scale, they were even greater non-entities than before. 

His mind raced through the remaining challenges like a machine-gun of old. The geth were gone. The Shadow Broker was now a personal friend. Cerberus was annihilated. The batarians were practically an endangered species. Aria T'Loak was once again the Queen of Omega, with most of the Terminus System paying tribute to her. 

He stared down at Earth. They were crisscrossing Eurasia at the moment, a thousand ancient battlefields in the field of his vision. Waterloo, Stalingrad, Thermopylae, Cannae. What had eluded Alexander and Napoleon, he had accomplished almost as an afterthought. He could order any man executed, any freedom suspended, all without a sliver of doubt that his wishes would be fulfilled. He’d studied Chinese, back in the days when the biggest worry on his mind had been a possible war between the United North American States and the Chinese People's Federation. The word he recalled at that moment was _tianxia_ \- under heaven. It was one of those terms that didn’t translate literally into the Standard English of his youth. But here he was, floating in the Heaven of ancient man, staring down at a world that was, crudely, _his_. 

... _and just what are you going to do with it?_

* * *

She was wearing black. 

Admiral Hackett was not normally a man who took much note of women's fashion choices, but he was also trained in interspecies cultural diplomacy, and he knew T'Soni's culture didn't wear black to mourn. That was decidedly a custom of the late Commander Shepard's particular clan of humanity, right down to the thin veil screening T'Soni's face. 

This part of the job never got easier. 

"Lady T'Soni," the Admiral greeted, as soon as the door to his cabin had slid shut behind her. He bowed low. "I know these words will be of small comfort for you, but you have my deepest condolences for your loss. Commander Shepard was one of the finest soldiers I ever have the honor of knowing. And humanity could ask for no better hero." 

T'Soni inclined her politely in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Admiral,” she replied, with all the grace one could have expected. She spoke English without a translator, with the ease of a native. But there was no warmth in her words, Hackett knew. “I understand that Shepard is to be promoted.” 

It wasn’t really a question, but Hackett ran with it. “Yes, ma’am. All the way to Admiral, in addition to all the other awards. I’m afraid that our personnel systems were so badly hit that we won’t be able to officially process it for a few days.” He paused, feeling an uncomfortable warmth in the back of his neck. T’Soni took the moment to seat herself in a high-backed chair, while Hackett took the low couch opposite her. His quarters weren’t built for entertaining. 

“You have the authority to issue field promotions, am I not mistaken?” There was nothing accusatory in T’Soni’s voice, but Hackett felt the knife slipping between his ribs all the same. “Shepard is officially ‘missing in action’, so the promotion isn’t even posthumous.” 

“Correct, ma’am. Though under the circumstances, I believe it best to wait until we can afford a little more... ceremony.” He fumbled over the last word, like being asked to quote a slur in polite company. 

T’Soni was silent for several long seconds. “Of course, Admiral. A soldier’s service doesn’t truly end with death, does it?” 

“No, ma’am.” T’Soni had so far refused to so much as raise her voice above a gentle lilt, but a sense of dread filled him regardless. “It will be better for morale if the ceremony can take place once our broadcast capabilities are fully restored. The troops deserve that much.” 

“It’s not just the troops you’ll be broadcasting to, Admiral. It will be to the very core of the human species itself. All of Earth, all of _Sol_ , will be watching. Have you thought about what they will be watching _for_ , Admiral?” 

He exhaled through his nostrils. “I have, T’Soni.” 

Liara glanced up at him, making eye contact for the first time since their conversation began. Even through the veil, he could make out the intelligence in those eyes, felt pierced by the passion and drive and sheer willpower projected from them. “Then you are no doubt aware that the Commander Shepard you knew and I loved is not the one being... I believe _worshipped_ , is the proper English verb.” 

“I can’t speak to asari culture, but such veneration is fairly common among humans. We love our saints, our martyrs. Secular or not.” 

T’Soni nodded in agreement. “Yes, Admiral. And I have studied your ancient Rome, where extraordinary humans could be elevated to the pantheon of deities.” 

It took the Admiral several seconds to find the words he needed. “Are you... suggesting that this might happen with Commander Shepard?” 

T’Soni shook her head. “I am saying it is _already happening_ , Admiral. I’m afraid Shepard would say I’m a terrible widow...” a ghost of a smile played across her face at that, an inside joke he would never be privy to. “...but I did not abandon my network while I mourned. I’ve listened to what narratives are being crafted. There are those who claim Shepard was the latest incarnation of the Christian God, or a manifestation of Shiva, or the fulfiller of any number of prophecies and legends. An anonymous ‘Gospel of the Shepard’ has already been downloaded some 130 million times, by my estimate.” 

“Do you want me to stop it?” 

Another grin, this one that could almost be called ‘ _amused_ ’. “Stop what, Admiral? An organic, flourishing religious movement? Even if it were not against all the principles of freedom Shepard stood for-” another pang of guilt struck Hackett “- I cannot say I would go long on your odds.” She paused, as if considering. “Though all good movements need a villain, don’t they?” 

“Then what do you want me to do?” 

A decade later, he had no idea why he’d asked her that. Why he had assumed she’d had something in mind. Nothing in her words, certainly not, but perhaps her posture, her body language. T’Soni was a mourning widow, yes, but that was never _all_ she would be. 

“Admiral, we have access to almost the same intelligence, unless you have some secret QECs squirreled away. So I can only assume that you’ve reached the same conclusion I have. Within the next ten years there will likely be a major galactic war as the post-Citadel order is established. I fear that the rest of my life will be spent in a galaxy-wide Dark Age if a new peace is not soon established.” 

Hackett strolled over to his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. The distillery it’d been made at had been evaporated, destroyed by a tactical nuclear warhead someone had fired off near Falkirk. Even still, he poured generously. 

“In the absolute strictest of confidences... _yes_. The turians and the krogan will probably be taking shots at each other within the year. Assuming krogan expansion continues unchecked, within the decade there will be war between the krogans and the old Citadel alliance. Forgive my bluntness, but neither the turians nor you asari are in fighting shape. And there are no fewer than twenty independent warlords who I could not defeat with anything less than a fleet action.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Shepard might have always been able to create a solution, but I don’t think I can.” 

T’Soni still hadn’t touched her drink. “We need a hegemon, then.” 

Hackett blinked at T’Soni’s use of the term. “Hegemon?” 

“Your Ancient Greece. Shepard as fond of it,” T’Soni said, by way of explanation. “Though perhaps Pax _Britannica_ or _Americana_ would be a closer analogy. Humanity’s prestige has only grown, after the Citadel, after Earth. The asari have no political legitimacy after the revelations of Athame. The salarians lack the inclination, the turians the ability. If any species is able to re-establish a galactic order, it will be yours.” 

“Humanity, Lady T’Soni, is in shambles. The civilian government of the Systems Alliance exists only on paper at this point.” 

She nodded. “A point in your favor, Admiral. The krogan and salarians are still fighting, clan against clan. We asari retreat to our city-states. But there are no polities on Earth that can challenge your will. A comparison with Prince von Metternich would not be inappropriate.” 

“Though I believe that would make the Reapers Napoleon in your analogy.” 

That small smile. “Yes, I suppose it would.” 

The warmth of witty banter cooled quickly. “You’re asking me to rebuild a galactic order. By exploiting the goodwill Shepard fought so hard for.” 

“Not in so many words, but _yes_.” T’Soni picked up the tumbler for the first time, taking a small swallow, handling it gently so as not to disturb her veil. Hackett had been told ethanol tasted far more bitter to asari, but no expression crossed T’Soni’s face. “Admiral. I understand that this sounds... Machiavellian. Heartless. But Shepard died for the chance that we might live in peace.” Her voice cooled, to glacial ice. “I will not have that sacrifice be in vain. You command one of the greatest fleets of the galaxy, and are the implicit leader of humanity. And I will give you the last element you need.” 

He exhaled. “Shepard’s blessing.” 

For the first time, T’Soni seemed to flinch, something all-too-human slipping past her veil, real and psychological. “For lack of a better term, Shepard’s deification is a very real phenomom, Admiral. Already, my partner is being reduced to ‘The Shepard’, some saintly parable, an icon. If everyone is speaking for Shepard, however, I will make my voice the loudest.” 

“You will write the _hadiths_ , so to speak?” Hackett asked. 

“Yes. If Shepard will be held up as a paragon of humanity, then I wish to define what is orthodox. But more than that...” T’Soni paused, unfastening the small clasp holding the veil over her face. She peered into his eyes, his soul. “I will give Shepard’s blessing to whatever steps you take to restore galactic peace. _The Shepard_ ,” T’Soni seemed to spit the term, “will safeguard your renaissance.” 

Hackett reclined in his couch, the cushions squeaking beneath his weight. He took another swig. “This is how theocracies begins, T’Soni.” 

“Liara,” she corrected. “And I know history, Hackett, mine and yours. I am aware of how dangerous, how _unconscionable_ this may be. But I see the same future as you. I see no other option but this golden path.” 

“And what comes next, Liara?” asked Hackett, verbalizing the question that had kept him awake so many nights. “What happens when the Shepardists schism, and the crusades begin?” 

“They won’t,” Liara promised, with that same, glacial fury. “You humans have short lives. I will likely outlive the next five generations. When the children of Earth not yet born are old and dying, I will still be there, telling them what Shepard would have willed. And I will have centuries to wean your species off Shepard. Once a new, _peaceful_ galactic order is established... doctrine will change. Over decades, over generations, The Shepard will become Commander Shepard again.” 

Liara let out a small shudder at that last sentence. As if she was already shivering with anticipation. 

“I don’t like it,” Hackett finally concluded, finishing his glass. “We’re humans, Liara. Rash, unpredictable. Prone to zealotry. We don’t have your kinds patience for thoughtful contemplation. In human history, most changes to religious doctrine usually come with violence. Pick a schism.” 

“I assume you, Admiral, I dislike this plan far more than you do. I also believe that it has the greatest chance of success. During the Reaper War, I made contingencies for what would happen if we lost. Created beacons to preserve our knowledge of the Reapers, the gains we made. You must know that I will do _anything_ to safeguard the peaceful existence of life in the galaxy. Shepard would.... Shepard would....” 

The sentence trailed off, a few tears pooling in Liara’s eyes. Hackett did not try to comfort her, simply gave her the minutes she needed to compose herself. It was he that spoke next. 

“Then I must ask you to marry me.” 

The words were foreign on his tongue. His throat tightened, his gut clenched, his heart felt like it was trapped in a vice. He felt vaguely nauseous. There was no love or romance in his words, just the solemn duty of an officer who had visited too many widows over the decades. 

Liara straightened up, and when she spoke, she forced her usual composure. “Of course, Admiral. I know the symbolic importance of marriage to human governments. A marriage will cement you as Shepard’s natural successor. I apologize for not thinking of that earlier.” 

“Thank you, Liara,” Hackett replied, his voice having lost none of its solemnity. “I give you my word that I will not...” he fumbled over himself... “you will not have to perform any... _consummation_.” 

Liara inclined her head. “And for some reason, Shepard was _very_ insistent that that tradition be upheld for our wedding.” Perhaps for the first time, Hackett felt some measure of genuine warmth from Liara, from her recollection of happier times. “Thank you, Admiral. I am sorry that I cannot provide you with a loving marriage. But you are an honorable gentleman, and you have my deepest respect.” 

Hackett rose from his couch and, quickly closing the distance between them, offered a hand to Liara. She accepted it, gracefully rising from her seat, before affixing the veil back in place. 

“It’s strange,” Liara began, smoothing her dress out as the Admiral prepared to escort her back to her shuttle. Somehow, they had reached wordless agreement that they were done for the day. “You’re much closer to me in age than Shepard was. The gap between us was scandalous by asari standards.” 

“You wouldn’t be calling me _old_ , would you, Liara?” Hackett asked, though he couldn’t keep the amusement out of his tone entirely. 

“Not for an asari,” Liara agreed, with the small grin that followed a neat quip. 

They reached the shuttle bay shortly thereafter, where a small honor guard had formed around the docking ramp. Hackett couldn’t help but now notice how the soldiers watched T’Soni with something approaching awe. Like a saint walking amongst them, someone blessed by contact with the divine. 

“I hope to speak again with you soon, Steven,” Liara said, halfway up the ramp, using his given name for the first time. “When we are both better-rested.” 

“There are some lovely mountains north of Vancouver that I know Shepard was fond of,” Hackett replied. “They survived the Reapers just fine. Perhaps I can show you them.” 

Liara smiled beneath the veil. “ _Sounds like a plan_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a short little idea I've had bouncing around in my head for a while. For some reason I have a longstanding obsession with how the galactic order would rebuild itself after the events of _Mass Effect 3_ (particularly if the genophage is cured). For some reason it always goes a little dark.
> 
>  
> 
> Feedback, comments, and alternative interpretations are always appreciated. I regret not having played _Mass Effect: Andromeda_ yet, so all I can do is pray that nothing I write has been horribly contracted in canon. If anyone with a better understanding of the _ME_ lore would like to explain their headcanons/predictions, I would  love to hear it.
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to find me on Tumblr as "[pvoberstein](http://pvoberstein.tumblr.com)".


End file.
